“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more! Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_ contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the _recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are _paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the tears stood in his eyes. Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat speech, I took leave. One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions, it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps, of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of the critiques. The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say, spoke as follows: